From Wakanda, with Love
by The Urban Spaceman
Summary: Exotic, dark, full-bodied and so damn hot; Bucky Barnes' greatest love had been a comforting light during the darkest times of his life, and carried him through a thousand variations of hell. Now, faced with the prospect of a long, undreaming sleep in a Wakandan cryo chamber, he turns to his first love for one last moment of happiness (or, A Very Sexy Goodbye).


_Shout-out to cairistiona7, who prodded me a while ago into posting this. I hope it's everything you imagined. ;-)  
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From Wakanda, with Love

My love affair began when I was thirteen years old, and it started out as all great love affairs do: _forbidden._ It's a failing of man; he wants what he can't have, and the more it's denied to him, the more desperately he longs for it. I was no exception.

" _You're too young,"_ Dad told me. " _It's not healthy for a kid your age."_

I didn't listen to him. In my head, I wasn't 'a kid'. I was thirteen years old, and, as I saw it then, teetering precariously on the cusp of adulthood. I was ready to take that final step, to usher in a new period of my life. But when your Dad gives you a stern glaring and tells you you're too young, you don't stand in front of him and flaunt the rules of the house.

You go behind his back.

I learnt to steal glances here and there. To loiter nearby whenever the object of my attention was present. I'd linger and enjoy the bittersweet aroma in the air, a perfume that filled my head with thoughts of exotic places and vague ideas that one day, I would visit them. When I was fourteen, I finally gave into temptation.

Dad had gone out the kitchen door to take a few puffs on his pipe; Mom didn't like him smoking in the house, and gave him the same glaring he'd given me if she even smelt tobacco lingering in the air. As soon as he was out, as soon as his back was turned, that was when I struck.

I grabbed his white porcelain mug, clamped my lips down on it, and took a long sip of the coffee. It burnt my tongue, but I didn't care. My head was swimming, giddy with the realisation that I was actually doing this, I was finally tasting the thing I had coveted since I was old enough to toddle into the kitchen on my own two legs.

The dangers had been exaggerated. Dad said it wasn't good for me, but I felt great. Better than great: I felt like a rebel. Later, when I told Steve, he merely rolled his eyes and told me I was crazy, but I didn't let his words put a damper on my spirit. Now that I'd started, there was no going back.

I didn't stay _too young_ forever. When I was sixteen, Dad bought me my own bag of freshly ground beans for Christmas. Showed me how to work the stainless steel electric percolator which was his pride and joy and the envy of Mr. Peterson next door. The envy of the whole street, even.

I can honestly say that coffee saved my life more than once. It kept me awake through many long college nights of overdue assignments. I attribute my success—and perhaps even the fact that I didn't bomb out—to coffee. And to celebrate graduating as an English Major? I took my family out for a round of the finest coffee I could afford, of course.

My constant companion in the editorial office where I worked later stayed with me when I raced down to the nearest Army enlistment desk after hearing about the attack on Pearl Harbor. They served coffee to us at Boot Camp, strong, bitter stuff with the kick every recruit needed after an exhausting early-morning lap around the difficult obstacle course. When I shipped out to England, my last taste of America was coffee with cream handed out along with a donut by the women of the Red Cross on the dock where my transport ship was berthed.

Even on the front lines, there was at least one cup every day for those fighting at war. It wasn't until I was captured and taken as a POW that I realised how much I had come to rely on my daily staple. There was no coffee in the HYDRA facility where I was held. There were needles, syringes, cold metal tables and leather straps stiff with blood which cut into my wrists and ankles when I tried to work myself free.

When Steve rescued me, the first thing I asked for was a black coffee. Steve had thoughtlessly neglected to bring coffee on his rescue mission, so I had to wait until we got back to the Allied camp. There, my best friend chivvied me to the hospital for a full check-up—and brought me a hot cup of joe to drink while I was prodded and poked by the nurses. When I saw Steve approach with that battered metal mug in his hands, steam curling above it like wisps of fine mist, I damn near cried.

 _Fool me once_ , so the saying goes. When I was captured by HYDRA, I felt like I'd been caught with my pants down, and I was determined it wouldn't happen again. The first thing I did when I got to England—after telling Steve he was nuts for wanting to form a team to jump back into the fray—was buy a Thermos flask. Falsworth laughed at me every time I brought it out… right up until the mission when we got stuck behind enemy lines in Crimmitschau, and his supply of tea ran out. The first thing _he_ did when we got back to England was buy a Thermos, and he never laughed at me again.

I don't remember what happened to my Thermos during the final mission I undertook in the war. My memories become a patchwork quilt of pain and torture and smoke and death. All I know is, there was no coffee for the Winter Soldier. I could smell its aroma on the frigid Siberian base because there was always a pot brewing in the guard room, but I didn't understand what I was smelling. The scent evoked in me feelings and hazy memories, but if I spoke about them, I was beaten. Eventually I learned to stop speaking, but I never stopped smelling.

Then I was free. The whole world had changed, but one thing remained the same. It now came in myriad flavours, it came with shots of syrup, it came skinny or full fat or double strength, but its soul was still still pure, still exactly as I remembered. My words to the waitresses in every café and diner I sat down in were always the same: _black coffee_. And, if there was an option for size, _medium_.

The coffee here in Wakanda has its own unique taste. Heavy. Smoky. Rich. I sit with my hand wrapped around the white porcelain mug, and I simply breathe in the scent as the hot liquid cools. From the doorway, Steve watches me, arms folded across his chest, countenance heroically stoic despite the sadness in his eyes. He watches in silence. He lets me have this last moment, and I savour it, drawing it out for as long as I can, not to put off the inevitable, but in the hope that in case this time is _different_ , in case my frozen mind actually dreams whilst I'm in cryo, I'll have this moment to remember.

Steve helps me into the stasis unit and gives me a small, reassuring smile. He says the words I need to hear.

" _The next thing you see will be me standing right here, holding a hot cup of joe. I know how grouchy you are if you don't get your coffee after waking up in the morning."_

I can't help but smile as the lid closes over me, and I count my blessings as the machine hums quietly to life. My best friend knows me too well, and I'm going to hold him to that promise. I don't know how long I'll be under. I don't know how much the world will change whilst I'm asleep. But I do know I'm lucky to have two constants in my life.

I close my eyes and wait for morning.

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 _Props to DraejonSoul, who drew this awesome picture of the last(ish) scene: draejonsoul—dot—deviantart—dot—com_ _(slash) art (slash) Coffee-Love-Affair-654753808_

 _Thanks for drawing this! I love the introspection on Bucky's face - he looks so calm and at peace. And I think Steve's expression says: "Man, I wish I had that coffee." ;-)_


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